Category — Album Review

Lights is the debut album released on March 1 by Ellie Goulding, the 23-year-old British electro-pop chanteuse recently awarded with (or damned with, depending on your interpretation) the title of BBC’s Sound of 2010 Artist.

The distinction stems from a list compiled at the start of each year by the broadcasting network responsible for predicting the next movers and shakers in the industry (Little Boots topped the list in 2009; Adele in 2008).

With the title also comes a responsibility to deliver, something that has always seemed to plague the shortlisted winners with an impossible amount of criticism and hype before their debut ever reaches shelves.

Luckily, Ellie Goulding can officially breathe a sigh of relief.

Lights is a buoyant, fluttery album complete with ten numbers that flow together effortlessly, all tied together with Goulding’s signature child-like warble that falls somewhere in between Joanna Newsom and a far less moody Lily Allen; strong for belting, though often fragile enough to shatter into pieces at the end of each of her word’s syllables.

The cohesive quality of Lights can be largely credited to its main producer, Starsmith, a newcomer to the mainstream music scene as well. The two established a wonderful working relationship together (as seen in the ever-increasing number of YouTube videos recorded together), lending itself to the strong collection of tracks that became the singer’s debut. The producer’s work on Lights is as much responsible for Goulding’s skyrocketing to fame as it is his own, now producing for a variety of major ticket acts including Cheryl Cole and Diana Vickers.

“Starry Eyed” and “Under the Sheets,” the album’s two lead singles, are undoubtedly the album’s strongest offerings: the former, a hectic explosion of twinkling sounds and jittery vocal tics that won the blogosphere’s approval as one of Goulding’s first offerings to the public; the latter a brilliant, kaleidoscopic mesh of plodding drums and exasperated cries of “We’re under the sheets, and you’re killing me!” that easily trumped most of the other pop singles released last year.

While it’s true that there aren’t many obvious standouts on the record, the fact doesn’t take away from the album’s plentiful successes. “This Love (Will Be Your Downfall)” is probably the album’s greatest triumph apart from its singles, as Ellie goes through the motions of a relationship: “This love is be and end all / This love will be your downfall,” she warns throughout the glittering, dance-ready chorus.

The spectacular combination of synth-pop, vocal layering and dramatic strings grant “Your Biggest Mistake” some of the catchiest riffs and brightest melodies of the bunch. Later on, during the chilly longing of “Wish I Stayed,” Ellie touches down to Earth in the song’s echoed introduction and prompts: “Why can’t we speak another language, one we all agree on? Why when men look outside, they see houses, instead of the fields they grew from?”

Goulding’s debut is an honest, delicate collection of flowing ambient pop that doesn’t fill the airwaves with messy gobs of loud instrumentation–a welcome addition to counter the increasingly busy sound of pop in 2010. While the album may not produce any gigantic radio hits, there are still plenty of wonderful, heaven-sent sounds and melodies here to keep Lights burning bright long after the first play.

Click here to purchase Lights.

Sweden is the epicenter of pop perfection. This is a fact that will never change.

Case in point: Moto Boy, and his album released today, Lost in the Call.

Moto Boy’s mournful coos and falsetto cries are nothing if not captivating, at times evoking Morrissey’s sad, solemn delivery (“When My Heart Was High”); at others a cross between a less theatrical Rufus Wainwright and a deeper voiced Jónsi Birgisson (“A Different Kind of Love”).

Recorded in Malmö, Sweden, the ten romantic, haunting numbers of Lost in the Call ache with lump-in-throat emotion, including the moving “If Only Your Bed Could Cry,” (which was originally released with Titiyo last year). At other times, the record bursts forth with jubilant defiance and hope, as with lead single “The Heart is a Rebel.”

“I wish that I could always feel the way I feel tonight,” the singer nearly whispers above the lush strings of the final track, “The Way I Feel Tonite,” a nearly instrumental closer that recalls the magic flowing through Björk’s Vespertine.

Complete with sweeping, magestic melodies that bristle with a pop sensibility, Lost in the Call is a warm collection of sounds both entrancing and romantic. For the bright-eyed pop lovers and late night dreamers, this album is an absolute must.

To listen to the album in full, click here. You can also choose to buy the album in a number of formats at the official store.

The Family Jewels is the debut album by Marina and the Diamonds (real name Marina Diamandis–see what she did there?).

Having just been named the #2 “One to Watch” on the BBC’s prestigious Sound of 2010 list, Marina is about to endure a great deal of scrutiny and criticism under the magnifying glass of the English press with the album’s release on February 22. But is she worth the dreaded hype?

Marina’s full, throaty delivery style has the ability to quickly divide her supporters from her detractors, meshing Regina Spektor’s quirk and Fiona Apple’s angst with a heavily theatrical flair. Never one to shy from over-enunciation, Marina tackles the bulk of her debut with a bold, brassy delivery and a dizzying array of instrumentation and sound.

The formula works wonderfully for the most part, as with the gorgeous, slow building “Obsessions” and the electro-bubbly contemplation of “Are You Satisfied?”Occasionally though, the album suffers from becoming all too much (and shrill), as evidenced by “Hermit the Frog,” a jumpy, quirky piano and strings-led number that sounds as though Marina is recalling the tale of her deflowering whilst spinning around a carousel filled with Broadway singers and marching band members.

The highlights of Jewels that shine brightest reside in its beginning and end, including “Oh No!”, “Shampain” and “Rootless,” a rewarding, slower moment of choral coos and ample amounts of harpsichord: “Running with my roots pulled up / Caught me cold so they could cut / What there was left of love / I’m rootless, I’m rootless.” Though just as ‘epic’-sounding as the rest of the album, it’s a much needed comedown from the occasionally overwhelming production.

If there’s a major criticism to be made about this album, it’s not the music, but rather the messages behind them. Lyrically, The Family Jewels offers a strange, if not inconsistent array of tales. “I know exactly what I want and who I want to be / I know exactly why I walk and talk like a machine / I’m now becoming my own self-fulfilled prophecy,” Marina announces in the delightfully explosive “Oh No!,” only seven songs after the seemingly contradictory “I Am Not A Robot.”

As with many of the songs that simultaneously fete and belittle the impossible dreams of fame and beauty such as “Girls” and “Hollywood,” Marina’s bouts of maniacal lyricism and celebrations of excess (“I’m obsessed with the mess that’s America”) too often position the singer as an unreliable narrator. We’re never entirely sure just who or what she’s singing about and, by the end, left wondering whether anything being sung is even sincere in the first place.

Then again, if the occasional contradiction in pop music were important, Lady “I hate money!” Gaga would be nowhere, money honey.

Marina’s debut is full of infectious melodies, bright sounds and fresh, delicious hooks. Even if the album as a whole may be a bit too much to tolerate in one spin, it’s not hard to see that there are more than just a few gems hidden in this box of Jewels.

Soldier of Love, Sade’s first studio album in over ten years, comes sandwiched in between two rather auspiciously timed events: heavy blizzards and Valentine’s Day. What else should be softly playing in the background than the warm, romantic layers of a Sade record?

The musical influences found on this record stretch far across genres and countries–from the aching piano balladry of “Morning Bird,” to the reggae-tinged melodies of “Babyfather” and country twang of “Be That Easy,” to the undefinable surprise in songs like “Bring Me Home,” which waltzes between a modern hip-hop groove, a pensive guitar strum, solemn chants and deep hums.

As she touches on throughout the album with the soldier motif, Sade Adu has been through plenty in the past few years: “My heart has been a lonely warrior before” she notes in the album’s final few seconds on “The Safest Place.” There’s hurt, there’s sorrow, there’s love and pain. But above all, there are stories that transcend conventional radio-ready pop tales. As Sade notes of this new release, “I only make records when I feel I have something to say. I’m not interested in releasing music just for the sake of selling something. Sade is not a brand.”

More often, Sade’s icy vocals are merged with the sweetest of sounds as with “Skin,” one of the slinkiest numbers. “Now as I begin to wash you off my skin / I’m gonna peel you away / ‘Cause you’re not right within,” Adu sadly coos as the smooth, creamy texture of the track washes in and out of the stratosphere.

Sensual. Devastating. Searching, Inspiring. Each track of the album carries its own wide array of emotion and sound, neither contemporary nor classic, reminding us that good music–true, real music, will always withstand the test of time.

While we may not hear from the band for another ten years (please don’t do it again!), Sade have granted us a record in Soldier of Love that stands to fend for itself and march forward for years to come.

It’s difficult to appreciate Heidi Montag as a human being.

At first glance, she isn’t much more than your typical blonde bimbo socialite; a plastic Barbie making bank from a talentless role on a “reality” show gallivanting around L.A. to fill the narcissistic need for attention like a spray-tanned crack addict with a flesh-color beard creeper of a husband.

But there’s another side to her–a weird one: Her personality is fragmented and strange, bouncing from the hyperbolic fame whore staging fake, elaborate photo-ops for the paparazzi and claiming her album to be on par with Michael Jackson’s Thriller, to the self-effacing, D-List embracing character portrayed in “Overdosin’,” to a pseudo born-again conservative Christian spouting off 140-characters-or-less bible verses on Twitter with one hand and signing off on photo stills for her Playboy spread with the other.

Not unlike Sarah Palin, Heidi Montag is either a comedic genius or an air-headed blowhole. It is possible that she may be a combination of both. For a while, I thought she could be the Antichrist.

And now, after endless unnecessary EP releases and a doofy, worm-like performance at the 2009 Miss Universe Pageant that seemed like a PG reinterpretation of Britney’s 2000 VMA performance, we have Superficial, a gift that truly keeps on giving.

One couldn’t stand to write a review of Superficial without first exploring the “vocals”: The work done on Heidi’s voice is, if nothing else, astounding. While many rich, socialite brats and mega pop stars–yes, even my beloved Britney!–are no strangers to Auto-Tune (I’ve been told that the pitch correction for Paris Hilton’s debut took over eight months alone), Heidi’s digital reconstruction is downright impressive.

It seems that not only can Heidi not sing (at all), but that the engineers couldn’t even stand to allow an instance of her true voice on the album without first melting it down with pitch-assisting, machine sound for a single second. At least Paris Hilton could command a lazy, if not a slightly sultry whisper: Heidi doesn’t even get the option of breathing on this mess.

That being said, Heidi spent a reported cool $2 million on this album to get the finest in the industry, and that she did: With songwriting credits from Cathy Dennis, Steve Morales and Chris Rojas, Superficial has a slew of songs that are well-written and, in theory, are quite good.

“Look How I’m Doing” and “Turn Ya Head” are delicious guilty pleasures, providing thick, dance-worthy synths piled atop Montag’s verses to the point where the lyrics are barely intelligable. Further on, “More is More” is about as close to a genuine hit as Heidi comes on the album, meshing a naughty chorus (“More is more on the dancefloor, it’s fucking chaos in here”) with a vaguely addictive synthesized beat.

“Twisted” is another delight, reveling in Montag’s toilet paper-thin delivery and manic, computer-controlled pitch changes. It’s actually a pretty well-written song–its only downfall being that it wasn’t released by a real artist first.

In her riskiest move (can I really call it that?), Heidi takes the already hypocrisy-ridden ‘Christian’ side of her persona and drives her values even deeper into the ground with “I’ll Do It.” The song, a slinkier reaction to the album’s mostly hasty offerings, features a handful of awkward come-ons meant to sound enticing (a failed attempt), while simultaneously presenting the album’s greatest lyrics: “I brought some treats / I know that you gon love em /Come eat my panties off of me.”

There are some hilarious, just-plain-bad numbers as well, including “My Parade,” which includes a farty marching band stomp and a truly hellacious set of lyrics about being defiant and young. Picture a balloon slowly deflating while being held by a sad, crying clown–that’s “My Parade” in visual form.

Heidi’s oft-published delusions of grandeur help to solidify this album’s non-genius genius, as in this morsel from EW:

“Most artists, it’s not their own money, but I’ve actually gone broke putting every dollar I’ve ever made and my heart and soul into this music. For me, I have a different appreciation, a different understanding, and a different love of my music and for my album than any other artist possibly could.”

If that’s the case–if we are to believe that Heidi’s heart and soul are found here in these songs (none of which having been penned or even co-penned by herself), you’ll learn nothing that you haven’t already on the cover of Star Magazine, aside from the fact that she wears edible undies from time to time.

To be blunt, I don’t think Heidi knows who Heidi is. Fake and real seem to be distinctions that serve no purpose in Heidi’s blurred perception of the world. How she actually wishes to be perceived is an even deeper mystery. She is superficial, and superficiality may be her only reality. So really, the album is actually quite personal and deep when you think about it.

Just kidding.

For tongue-in-cheek pop flop enthusiasts like myself, Superficial is truly a goldmine: In all honesty, it’s a fun album. She’s a terrible singer, but there’s a certain cheeky, camp appeal to the whole ordeal.

Surprisingly hooky, hilariously bad and devoid of vocal talent, Superficial is not, as most would expect, an utter train-wreck…it’s just a good ol’ shit show.

“When I woke up, I was like what did I do last night? Like what did I do? I fucked up… story of my life.”
Nicole “Snookums” Polizzi, Jersey Shore

Congratulations…it’s 2010! Who’s ready to drink?

That’s the lasting, ever-present theme of Animal, the long-awaited debut album from Ke$ha. (That’s kesh-uh, like ketchup, not key-shuh, like what I’ve been calling her for almost a year now.)

With a voice that can only be described as belonging to the bratty, rebellious step-sister of Katy Perry and a wardrobe identical to your annoyingly hip cousin who’s ‘over’ consumer culture and shops exclusively at American Apparel, Ke$ha has been toted for some time now as a kind of drunk electro-crap pop protege in the making.

But before we get ahead of ourselves and start praising her as the mainstream answer to Peaches or Uffie, let the record show: Ke$ha is just too squeaky-clean to be anything even close to dirrty pop. Sure, she’ll wear ripped leggings out on the town, hobble ’round drunk on stage with glitter smeared on her face and shout into a megaphone like an ass-backwards loon, but at the end of the day, she’s still a pretty face (with an interest in collaborating with Taylor Swift, as evidenced in this fairly annoying mini-interview).

However, even if she isn’t really spewing blood or punching dudes for sticking their fingers up her hoo-hah while crowd surfing, Ke$ha’s still here for the party on Animal.

With “Your Love Is My Drug” and “Tik Tok,” the “Poker Face” and “Just Dance” of the album respectively, K$ revels in the excesses of pop at its finest. Exuberant, punchy, irreverent–the two songs are the quintessential ‘dancing the night away’ moments of the album, complete with fist-pump worthy choruses and glitchy, gleeful synthesizers that merge fun, kid-friendly beats with the all-important album theme of substance abuse. (The result of which lends itself to literally dozens and dozens of uncomfortable tweenage video reinterpretations, complete with water bottle sippin’ and faux-drunk gyrating.)

Later on, with songs like “Take it Off” and “Kiss N Tell,” Ke$ha keeps the Katy Perry pronunciation guide close at hand for another round of drink-inspired jubilee. If you close your eyes and ignore the awful, skin-crawling over-enunciation of each syllable (“we’re duh-lee-ree-uss-suh, ’til the sun comes back uh-rah-ow-und”), the song’s are almost as fun as the two lead tracks, though inconsistently so: Some days they’re amazing, others simply unlistenable. It all depends on how loud and where you’re playing them.

It’s too bad that the plug gets pulled so soon.

Just as the party’s getting started, K$ takes it back to the schoolyard with a few truly dire attempts including  “Stephen,” a sloppy ode to a boy performed with an irritating, giggly schoolgirl sweetness. “I saw you in your tight ass rocker pants / You saw me too / I laughed ’cause I was completely trashed.” If the tuneless chorus isn’t enough to kill your buzz, the embarrassing ‘this is meant to be ironically immature’ lyricism will finish the job.

Later on, Ke$ha’s childish side is only further exploited with the likes of “Dinosaur,” which doubles as the worst song of 2010 thus far. The wimpy spell-out assault, meant to put the old men creeping around clubs on blast (“D-I-N-O-S-A, U-R a dinosaur!”), is so obnoxious, so incomprehensibly basic that it makes Gwen Stefani’s “Hollaback Girl” (“This shit is bananas! B-A-N-A-N-A-S”) sound refined.

As songs like “Dinosaur” come to show, one of the biggest drawbacks of Animal is its snotty Kidz Bop-friendly attitude. Back during the summer, when a slew of demos from the singer first leaked, standout tracks including “Disgusting,” “Fuck Him (He’s A DJ)” and “V.I.P.,” (which has mercifully been tacked on as a bonus track overseas) provided a glimmer of hope that Ke$ha was to become our new rude-pop savior. The songs were much grimier, complete with naughty come-on’s and more genuinely clever lyrics (“He’s a stereo type / He’s got the baseball cap and he’s building the hype, as he’s feeding me this hot track / You see, we share the same God, we’ve got the same love / I never want to stop, I don’t want to give him up.”) Now? We’ve got trash like “Blah Blah Blah.”

Not all of the girly girl tracks are worth the hate, though: The strut-worthy prowl of “Boots and Boys” and the deliciously bitchy “Backstabber” are both redeemable bouts of escapist delight.

The time when Ke$ha truly, legitimately shines best is when she drops the baby routine and acts her own age: “Hungover,” “Dancing With Tears in My Eyes,” and “Animal” are all miles ahead of the pack, featuring anthemic pop hooks and devastating choruses. The most successful of all of the grown-up numbers is “Blind,” which ties a minimal, plodding synthesized beat together with one hell of a Clarkson-worthy chorus: “I’m sick and tired of the mess you made me / Never gonna catch me cry / You must be blind if you can’t see / You’ll miss me ’til the day you die.”

The bleary-eyed, post-party numbers are much smarter than the surrounding material, and far more representative of Ke$ha’s ability to be more than just a one bottle wonder–which makes duds like “Party at a Rich Dude’s House” all the more difficult to swallow.

In the aftermath of the Chris Brown incident, Rated R could have gone one of three ways for Rihanna: A schlocky, inspirational ballad-filled account of her experience, an ignorance-is-bliss continuation of her winning 2008 dancefloor formula, or something much, much more daring than anything she’s ever done before. Lucky enough for us, she’s gone ahead with the latter.

Rated R finds the singer in a dark place. One needs look no further than the moody, high contrast Ellen von Unwerth-shot promotional photos for the album that feature the singer in a variety of S&M-lite poses, pointing her fingers like a gun and taking aim toward the camera in a skin-tight corset and standing bare-breasted within a lasso of barbed wire. In her video for “Russian Roulette,” the camera flashes between scenes of her partaking in the deadly game of chance to inside a padded cell, awaiting execution in the aftermath of the game.

She’s in a murderous mood for sure, which is why at a certain point I began referencing the artist by a new, more fitting nickname: “Rihannoir.”

Trading in her umbrella for a few gats and a razor sharp tongue, Rihanna’s weapons of choice have evolved significantly over the past year as she goes on the offensive for a large part of Rated R. Lyrically, Rihanna has all but rejected the meaningless dancefloor romps like “Don’t Stop the Music” and “S.O.S.,” instead greeting us with an in-your-face attitude, ballsy statements and sarcastic quips: “I’m such a fucking lady,” she taunts on top the repetitive, winding thuds of buzz single, “Wait Your Turn.”

On the roughest of cuts, including the menacingly paced “G4L,” Rihanna let’s loose a deluge of blood-chilling statements: “I lick the gun when I’m done, ’cause I know that revenge is sweet,” she purrs before the song begins before later announcing “We got our guns, got our guns / We got our guns in the motherfucking air.”

“Hard” finds Rihanna at her most defiant, pulling out all the stops to prove just why she’s so…well, hard: “I’ma rock this shit like fashion, as in goin’ til they say stop / And my runway never looked so clear / But the hottest bitch in heels right here,” she proudly proclaims over a grinding series of industrial beats, horns, and piano chords. Regardless of whether one is inclined to accept Riri’s new-found street cred, it’s all but impossible not to want to play along in the meantime.

Photo courtesy of Ultimate-Rihanna.com.

The album isn’t completely icy however, as the artist breaks down her defenses more than a few times for a series of introspective, though somewhat uneven jams. “Stupid in Love” is both the album’s only traditional ballad and also the most skippable part of Rated R, as the singer plods through a somewhat embarrassing chorus: “This is stupid / I’m not stupid / Don’t talk to me like I’m stupid.” Other slow numbers, including the masterful, six-minute “Cold Case Love” and the guitar-heavy “Fire Bomb” all offer subtle clues as to how she’s feeling: “Your love was breaking the law, but I needed a witness / So wake me up when it’s over, it don’t make any difference,” she coos through “Cold Case Love.”

But if anything’s meant for Brown, it’s the soaring, gut-wrenching “The Last Song,” the album’s outro which may also go down as Rihanna’s most overlooked, artistic piece of work yet.

This album is not, however, the confessional many thought it might have been. In fact, Rihanna delves into a host of other topics and issues including the triple-take worthy “Te Amo,” which follows a female suitor’s unsuccessful attempts for the singer’s affections atop a swaying, Latin beat. “I’m all for feeling the love, but I don’t feel that way,” Rihanna pleads as the song’s bridge fades. Be it the young singer’s first foray into lyrically exploring her sexuality or simply a not-so-subtle round of homophobia, “Te Amo” proves about as earnest in its replay value as Rihanna’s unrequited love.

Whatever Rated R lacks in synthesizers and dancefloor vagueries is more than made up for in “Rude Boy,” the only dance-oriented number of the album. Grinding, grooving and downright filthy, “Rude Boy” is destined to be the album’s best kept secret, meshing the island sway from her Music of the Sun days with the naughtiest come-ons that Rihanna has ever brought into the recording booth: “I like when you tell me kiss it there, I like when you tell me move it there /So giddy up, Time to get it up / You say you’re a rude boy, show me what you got now.”

From an artist who already has enough trouble making “Disturbia” seem thrilling in front of a live audience, the moody, at times beatless contents of Rated R have made for quite possibly the worst concert experience of all time.

Yet as a body of work in its own right, Rihanna’s fourth studio album provides the Barbados-born songstress her transition from fleeting radio obsession to legitimate pop icon in the making. The album is immensely listenable from start to finish; one of the most delightfully unexpected major label releases of the year and certainly her best record to date.

Though Rated R is not nearly as commercially viable or even as accessible as her past three records, the album offers a taste of what Madonna’s Bedtime Stories and Kylie Minogue’s Impossible Princess provided in their under appreciated, experimental production value–a distinction that may not make itself apparent until years down the line.

Congratulations Rihanna, you’ve assembled the first few pieces of your new throne.

Purchase Rated R on iTunes | MySpace | Official Website

As Torrance Shipman once said in the 2000 classic, Bring It On, “Missy’s the poo…so take a big whiff.”

While that quote doesn’t really apply here (aside from suggesting that Gaga is indeed ‘the poo’), the point is this: As the driving force behind the writing and recording process of her music, the creative director of her album artwork, music videos, tour visuals, merchandising and just about every other minute facet of her career, Lady Gaga is a very new kind of pop star; one that sings live, writes and records, dances, styles photoshoots, and waxes poetic about the lifestyle of the artiste.

While many have managed to break the market on their own terms, I can’t think of a single mainstream female pop artist in recent times who has exercised nearly as much creative control in both the audio and visual department as Lady Gaga.

In fact, I can’t think of any.

November 23 will see the release of Lady Gaga’s The Fame Monster, an 8-track concept album originally intended to be a re-release of her debut, The Fame. Written as a kind of antithesis to the subject matter of The Fame, The Fame Monster centers around horror and fears–from love, to loneliness, to death.

After some squabbles with her label (and a few inspired writing sessions while out on her Fame Ball Tour), Lady Gaga decided that this newly formed collection of tracks was enough of a living creature in its own right to merit release into the wild all on its own, rather than being slapped onto her pre-existing album. Of course, you could opt to purchase the album as a 2-CD bundle, but as a whole, the record is capable of standing on its own feet–however many feet a monster may have.

Now then, let’s run down the tracklisting.

The Fame Monster begins with “Bad Romance,” the current single that continues to power its way up the radio play charts. Better known as the song of 2009, “Bad Romance” is an unstoppable barrage of catchy hooks, hymn-like chants, and soaring crescendos. It’s a raw, raucous affair, best served at max volume in cars and clubs, and arguably the greatest track that Gaga has ever recorded.  Starting off with such a praise-worthy number, it’s fairly easy to forget that “Bad Romance” is just the first song off of the album.

“Alejandro” comes next, an Ace of Base-like mid-tempo, tropical track. While my reaction to the track was initially lukewarm after hearing the song in demo form, the album’s revamp adds a nice punch to the mix, creating a solid introduction and some reworked vocals. Watch out, though–the repetitive melody is addicting, and you may find that the song’s play count racks up faster than you can say “Alejandro,” “Fernando,” or any other man-of-Latin-origin’s nombre.

“Don’t call me Gaga,” Lady G announces as “Monster” begins to play. At this point, there’s really no need to progress any further into the album, as Gaga’s about to nail it: “Monster” is the epitome of the album’s essence, mashing a killer bass line with cheeky, creature feature lyricism: “We french kissed on a subway train / He tore my clothes right off / He ate my heart, and then he ate my brain,” Gaga laments during the song’s massive, glitchy (perhaps even picopop inspired?) breakdown. It’s a major hit, and is pretty much destined to be an upcoming single sometime soon.

“Speechless,” the next song on the album, comes with plenty of baggage in the Gaga Claims Department over the past few months, with “My favorite song of all” and “The greatest song I ever recorded” being just a few of the quotes offered up by the pop star during interviews. As one might imagine, the song has built a substantial amount of hype.

Mercifully it delivers, and the pay off is rich: “Speechless” is the ’70’s power rock ballad that always been hinted at in her earlier work (“Brown Eyes”, “Again Again”), though never fully realized until now. Penned for her father, “Speechless” is the result of Lady Gaga’s appreciation for the arena-rock legends and glam gods of yore (David Bowie, Freddie Mercury) that avoids imitation and plays like the torch ballad Gaga always needed. It may not be the greatest ‘hit’ of the album, but it is the most aurally adventurous (and surely the most personal). “I’ll never talk again / Oh boy, you’ve left me speechless,” Gaga croons with a swagger hitting somewhere between classic Elton John and Liza Minnelli. Concertgoers, be prepared–this one’s made for the lighters-in-the-air moment.

Coming in thereafter is “Dance in the Dark,” the album’s chilliest moment. “Silicone, saline, poison, inject me / Baby, I’m a free bitch,” Gaga scowls at the song’s beginning, which happens to double as the greatest opening line of the year. A hands-in-the-air dance song about a woman being harassed by her boyfriend, Gaga’s “Dance” is a murderous slice of pop complete with industrial whirls, haunted synths and occasional screams of anguish in the distance.

Part of the songs appeal, aside from being as danceable as it is dark (thus, “Dance in the Dark”…get it, eh?), lies in its occasional nods to the classics–from the  pulsating injection of Depeche Mode’s “Strangelove” into the opening chords to its homage to Madonna’s “Vogue” throughout the song’s spoken word middle eight:  “Marilyn, Judy, Sylvia…tell ‘em how you feel, girls!”

However unlike Madge’s celebrity roll-call, Gaga limits her subjects according to theme, choosing only those who’ve suffered a tragic end by way of, or indirectly because of, the fame. By the end of it all, you’ll want to know only one thing: Who knew emotional abuse could inspire such happy feet?

The next track, “Telephone,” is a doozy–a duet with Beyonce? Even on print, you’re already asking for trouble. “Telephone” was originally penned and serviced to Britney Spears by Gaga, rejected, and then reclaimed by the writer herself.

Along with a beat recalling Timbaland’s “The Way I Are” and a frantic, stuttering electro-bass line, “Telephone” is a mish-mosh of synths, phone sounds and above all, rampant telephone talk. While Beyonce’s vocal runs are a welcome addition to the track, the song functions best as an unapologetic celebration of the vocoder. Just dance, as someone around here might say.

“So Happy I Could Die” seems to pick up where The Fame’s “Starstruck” left off, borrowing its squeaky synthesizers and urban flavoring to engage in some self-indulgence. “In the silence of the night, through all the tears and all the lies / I touch myself and its alright.” While some reviews have likened the track to Britney Spears‘ “Touch of My Hand,” the music and lyrics seem far too dark to place “Happy” in the same realm as Spears’ ode to self-exploration. As the verses fade, the unusual anti-chorus fills the void: “Happy in the club with a bottle of red wine / Stars in our eyes ’cause we’re having a good time / Yeah, yeah / So happy I could die.”

Minimal and moody, “Happy” provides food for the mind while moving back and forth between Gaga and an unidentified “she.” It could be herself she’s referencing, but I’m still uncertain. Sasha Gaga, perhaps?

“Teeth,” the album’s premature closer, takes a surprising turn in sound: A stomping, hoot-and-holler-worthy chant-along, the final track of The Fame Monster invites listeners to cut loose and…well, sink their teeth into the music. Part musical, part country, and a little bit tribal in spots, Gaga snarls and taunts above an incessant, stomping march: “Take a bite of my bad girl meat / Show me your teeth.”  It’s an odd choice to end the album, though a surefire crowd pleaser for live shows if the addictive backing beat is anything to judge by.

Out of the eight excellent tracks of the album, the greatest part about listening to The Fame Monster is not the catchy beats or silly lyrics (of which there are many), or even the lock of Gaga’s own hair included with the Super Deluxe Fan Edition (with which I still have no idea what to do with)–it’s the fact that the album is history in the making.

For better or worse, Gaga is on the path of legendary status:  With only one album under her belt, Lady Gaga has already broken a world record for most #1 singles from a debut album, written for Britney Spears, Keri Hilson and the Pussycat Dolls, collaborated with high-profile photographers and artists including David LaChapelle, Araki, and Markus Klinko (which is not to forget her sheer influence on the runway, as well as scoring the devotion from runway legends like Alexander McQueen and Marc Jacobs). Along the way, she’s performed across the world to millions from San Francisco to Jerusalem, including a recent concert in New York where a newfound fan named Madonna watched along with her daughter, Lourdes, in the audience.

While I may be prone to hyperbole, I do believe that The Fame Monster is without a doubt the pop album of the year, if not one of the finest pop records of the decade.

And to think, this was just going to be a re-release.

Pre-Order The Fame Monster from Lady Gaga’s Official Store | Buy tickets to The Monster Ball Tour | MySpace | Official Website

Kate Havnevik is releasing an exclusive EP ahead of her next studio album, You, slated for release in early 2010. The Me EP (see what she did there with the album name?) features five tracks: “Show Me Love,” “Halo,” “Think Again,” “Disobey,” and Soon.”

If you suddenly find yourself longing for some Frou Frou while listening to this record, there’s good reason for it: Guy Sigsworth, the male half of the project, also happens to helm production of the Me EP.

“Show Me Love,” the mini-album’s opener, also happens to be the first and only upbeat ditty of the bunch. As the bright, gleeful horns and electronica flourishes fizzle the warm embers of “Halo” begin, mellowing out the atmosphere of the EP.

“Think Again” floats in dreamily thereafter, complimented by an airy vocal delivery by Havnevik. “I know that I’m losing you, but I don’t want to get over you,” she coos as Sigsworth’s signature sitar strings (alliteration up the “S”!) wrap themselves around the track.

“Disobey” is a pleasant surprise for longtime fans; a reworking of a demo originally released on Havnevik’s website years now spruced up with a marching trip-hop beat, the Sigsworth sitar, and a strong, cutting militant beat. “How can you resist the pleasure within the risk? ‘Cause misbehavior could be your savior,” Havnevik taunts off the first lines of the track.

Closing out the collection is “Soon,” which also happens to be closest stylistically to what we’ve already come to expect from Havnevik’s earlier work, Melankton: Namely soft, detached vocals that float atop bubbly waves of electronica.

The Me EP is a stunning piece of work, bringing together the best of Havnevik’s dream-pop vocals with Sigworth’s penchant for organic, layered melodica. If this mini-album is anything like what we’ll be hearing next year, prepare to read a lot more about Kate in the coming months.

To purchase the exclusive Me EP (which is only available through her site or at her live shows), please visit Kate’s website.

Additionally, Ms. Havnevik is hitting the dusty trail along with Levi Weaver throughout the month of November. Here are the full list of dates!

Nov 15 – Prophet Bar – DALLAS, TX
Nov 17 – Red Light Café – ATLANTA, GA
Nov 18 – Slim’s – RALEIGH, NC
Nov 19 – The Red and The Black – WASHINGTON, D.C.
Nov 20 – The Living Room – NEW YORK CITY
Nov 22 – Northstar – PHILADELPHIA, PA
Nov 23 – The Atrium at Franciscan Uni. STEUBENVILLE, OH
Nov 24 – SPACE – CHICAGO, IL
Nov 25 – The Crofoot Pike Room – PONTIAC , MI

Purchase more from Kate Havnevik on iTunes | MySpace | Official Website

Anyone looking for a post-Halloween treat?

I’ve always had a thing for Blake Lewis, be it his fanboy-like devotion to electronica, his open embrace of the gay community, or that cherry blossom tattoo on his forearm.

On October 6, Lewis unleashed his sophomore attempt, Heartbreak on Vinyl, released through Tommy Boy Records.

Like his previous effort, Heartbreak on Vinyl is an album of music about music-making, riddled with gadget-speak and geeky computer tech talk: “Sensory overload, define original, seductive frequency coming to me in stereo. It seems that you were made for me,” he sings off the bridge of “Binary Love” as computer blips and the sounds of dial-up modems pepper the speakers.

Heartbreak on Vinyl makes use of a variety of dancefloor sounds, including radio-ready ‘modern’ stompers (“Afraid”), harder hitting, dark grinders (“Freak”), slow burn torch ballads (“The Point”), and ’80’s-inspired grooves (“The Remedy”): “The sound could save our life if we follow the melody / When love is on the line, this is a remedy,” Lewis urges atop a flare of killer synths, surpassing any and all songs released under the name “Remedy” this year. Yes, Little Boots…I’m referring to you.

“Heartbreak on Vinyl,” the album’s title track, is also one of the strongest selections, bringing to mind the warbling delivery style of The Killers‘ Brandon Flowers. “I waited for you at the record shop, walked through the doors and the record stopped. Heartbreak on Vinyl was the name of the store, now the store is gone and we can’t meet there anymore,” Lewis coos atop a twinkling electronica undercurrent.

For anyone previously turned off by Blake Lewis’ well documented over-enthusiasm for his human beat-box skills, fear not: The focus of this album is on actual instruments, not Lewis’ turntable tongue work. That is, aside from the album’s interlude, “Superscratchavocalisticturnatablelicious,” which is apparently where Lewis chose to channel the energy of his oral acrobatics. Don’t like it? Skip over it, and you’re right back into the set of dancefloor gems.

Rest assured, Heartbreak isn’t ‘just another Idol album’ by any stretch of the imagination. It’s well-crafted, cohesive and seriously danceable; the obvious product of a sincere adoration for the medium. As an album, Lewis’ second effort works to unite both the tech nerd within me and the dancefloor enthusiast, bringing both elements together to provide a stellar set for dancing the night away.

To enter to win one of TEN copies of Blake Lewis’ new album, Heartbreak on Vinyl, send a blank e-mail to blake@muumuse.com by Friday, November 6. The first ten entries will win! This post will be updated once the contest has ended.
Contest is now closed…thank you to all the entrants!

Purchase Heartbreak on Vinyl on iTunes | MySpace | Official Website